“No, but we could go next door and ask the Firbelles. That will give you an excuse to meet them. We can say you’ve just got off the plane from Europe and your luggage was hijacked.”
“Save it for that book you’re supposed to be writing. Never tell any more lies than you have to. I learned that from a very successful embezzler I met once. The closer you stick to the truth, the less apt you are to get caught. I dashed up from Baltimore this morning on the spur of the moment to see your place, found you in a mess, and decided I’d better stay on to help you get settled. What do they call you at home?”
“Jenny. At least that’s what I prefer to be called. It’s short for Jennifer, and about half the girls I went to school with were named Jennifer.”
“Jenny it is, then. You’d better call me Aunt Harriet. Nobody ever has, before. Now you’d better take me out and show me around the place. That’s always the first thing you do when you’ve just bought a home in the suburbs. Where shall I park my hat?”
“You’d better use my room, Aunt Harriet,” Jenny replied, trying it on for sound. “There’s a sort of guest room, but it’s in pretty rough shape at the moment.”
“I’ll have the guest room. If you’re that rich, you don’t put yourself out for anybody.”
Miss Compton bustled around the tiny spare bedroom, sweeping junk off the dresser top, helping Jenny put fresh linen on the narrow, saggy bed, setting her citified hat on the closet shelf and the gold-mounted attaché case containing the bloodstained jacket on the floor below.
“All moved in. Let’s go.”
Luck was with them. As they stepped out the back door, they could see Beth Firbelle over near the boundary between the two yards, fussing with some straggly purple chrysanthemums. Jenny led Miss Compton toward her.
“Good morning. Beth Firbelle, I’d like to have you meet my aunt, Miss Harriet Compton. She just breezed in from Baltimore to see how the other half is living.”
“And I must say she’s not living any too grandly at the moment,” Miss Compton put in. “That place is a decorator’s nightmare. I’d be glad to stay and pitch in, Jenny, except that I didn’t bring any clothes with me.”
“That’s a lame excuse, coming from you, Aunt Harriet. We’ll go buy some. You know how you adore splurging on things you don’t need. Beth, is there any place downtown where we could find something for her to wear?”
“Oh, yes, we have lovely shops in Meldrum.”
Beth was avidly drinking in every detail of the newcomer’s toilette, from the exquisitely carved jade earrings to the sleek-fitting bench-made oxfords. “Aunt Marguerite gets most of her clothes from Louise’s Boutique on Main Street.”
Jenny was willing to bet the ashes-of-eggplant sweater and skirt Beth was wearing hadn’t come from Louise’s Boutique. Here, beyond a doubt, was another do-it-yourself project that should never have been done. Beth even had another matching drawstring bag, this one bulging unattractively with shears and garden gloves.
“Come on, Auntie dear,” she said. “I’ll drive you down to Louise’s right this minute. Beth, won’t you come along for the ride and show us where it is?”
“I’d love to!” Beth wasn’t bad-looking when she smiled. She was flushed and excited now, looking younger than the forty or so years Jenny had given her last night. “I’ll just run in and make sure Aunt Marguerite doesn’t want me for anything first. Would you—” She hesitated, obviously wondering whether she dared ask them into the house.
The polite thing would be to murmur, “Go right ahead. We’ll just stay here and admire the chrysanthemums,” but Jenny realized they weren’t going to get anywhere without treading on a few toes. “We’ll come with you,” she said cheekily. “I want my aunt to meet your aunt.”
After that, there was nothing Beth could do but give them a strained little smile and let them come. Jenny could see she was none too happy about letting them in without official permission. As they mounted the longish flight of wooden stairs that led up to the back door, she could feel the tension building at every step.
But why? Was Beth really all that terrified of her aunt? Was it an act of cruelty to force themselves on her like this?
As a former sort of poor relation herself, Jenny could feel a certain kinship with Beth. She didn’t recall ever having been afraid of the Plummers, though; mostly frustrated and resentful because they never quit nagging her, trying to force her into becoming something she didn’t want to be.
Looking at this dejected creature in the droopy homemade skirt going off to get her aunt, she realized now that things back home could have been a great deal worse. She’d had her own mother with her, for what that was worth. The room they’d shared had been well-furnished and spacious enough for both. It was mainly the lack of privacy Jenny had resented. As to getting along with her mother, that hadn’t been any great problem. Marion Plummer had never been unkind or even cross. Whenever Jenny had stepped out of line, as so often happened, she’d simply taken to her bed with a headache and let Aunt Martha do the scolding.
Furthermore, she hadn’t actually been a poor relation, even though they’d tried to make her feel like one. Jenny had always known they weren’t living on charity because Uncle Fred was too fond of spouting figures at them. He’d kept a special ledger in which he itemized everything from their weekly board and room to Jenny’s new toothbrush, and loved to snap, “Marion, this will have to come out of your next month’s share of the interest,” whenever either of them spent a penny over their allowances. She’d gotten furious with her mother for sighing, “Please, Fred, you know I have no head for figures. Whatever you do is fine with me.” Nobody’d ever asked whether it was all right with Jenny. Even now, she felt a surge of the old fury.
Maybe it was the atmosphere in this house! It struck her as a gloomy place, dark and old and somehow creepy. She was almost shocked when she heard Harriet Compton exclaim, “What a lovely kitchen!”
Jenny looked around then at the room into which Beth had led them. Why hadn’t she noticed the graceful tin chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, the round oak table set beside a huge window over which stray tendrils of a grapevine, now touched by frost, showed purple clusters of fruit against silver-bronze leaves? There was a huge black iron stove with polished steel rims around the little shelves that jutted out from its high back and fancy curlicues embossed on its oven doors. A mammoth hutch cabinet was laden with pewter and ironstone. Everything was spotless, gleaming with polish. The walls were painted a warm ivory, the curtains patterned in soft cream and gold. Whatever had made her think it was gloomy?
While Jenny was still trying to sort out her feelings, they heard Marguerite Firbelle’s silver tinkle coming through the hall. “Jenny’s aunt? How delightful! But you might at least have brought them around the front way, Beth dear.”
“And miss seeing this marvelous kitchen?” Harriet Compton was shaking hands, saying all the right things, looking at least as elegant in her tweeds as Mrs. Firbelle in her heather-colored wool dress. Jenny was proud of her, and the neighbor was obviously impressed.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Compton. My niece tells me you’ve come to give Jenny a hand getting settled.”
“I really came to snoop,” the newcomer replied quite honestly. “We have no friends or family in Rhode Island, and I hadn’t the faintest idea what Jenny had got herself into. I thought she’d at least choose a place nearer Newport, but I can see now why she picked Meldrum. It’s an ideal location for a writer, wouldn’t you think?”
“Oh, yes, it couldn’t be more suitable,” Mrs. Firbelle assured her. “My son has often thought he’d like to write. He was mentioning it at breakfast, as a matter of fact. Didn’t he, Beth? Perhaps you might be willing to give him some pointers on getting started, Jenny.”
“I could use a few myself,” Jenny confessed, recalling her newly adopted aunt’s advice about sticking to the facts as much as possible. “All I’ve done so far is sit at the typewriter and stare at
a blank sheet of paper.”
“Jenny has the ability. What she needs is to forget everything else and concentrate on her work,” said Harriet Compton with just the right degree of severity. “Not having to get out and scratch for a living is no excuse for her to fritter away her talent, as I’ve told her time and again.”
“You certainly have, Auntie dear.” Despite the odd little sensation of disquiet that was still bothering her, Jenny was beginning to enjoy this new role. It was certainly a lot easier to play a part when you had somebody feeding you the perfect line every time.
Mrs. Firbelle tinkled a few more pleasantries, then gave the stamp of approval her own niece had been anxiously waiting for. “But I mustn’t keep you here chatting when you have so much to do. Beth tells me you’ve asked her to show you around our quaint little shops.”
“We’d be so glad if she would,” said Harriet Compton. “I thought I was just popping up for the day, so I didn’t bring anything with me. Then I found Jenny in such a state here that I hadn’t the heart to leave, so I’ve got to pick up some things. What does one need for clothes around here? Can I get by for a few days without a dinner dress?”
Beth leaned forward eagerly, but her aunt only laughed. “Heavens, yes. We’re simple folk here in Meldrum.”
“All you’ll need are a couple of shirtwaisty things and a warm robe to sit around and watch television in,” Jenny added. “I don’t expect to get invited out, and we can’t entertain yet because the house is still a shambles.”
If Marguerite Firbelle could ignore a hint the size of that one, she must be thick-skinned as an ox. Not that Jenny wanted to be asked back for a longer visit; in fact she was feeling she couldn’t get out of the place fast enough. What was wrong in this charming old house, anyway? Why was she still recalling that little red dot on Marguerite’s palm? But was it Mrs. Firbelle herself who was in danger, or was someone else in danger from her? The more she saw of the woman, the less sure Jenny was about how to read that troublesome hunch.
But like it or not, she must push ahead with this new acquaintance. Living so close, the Firbelles must surely have known the man who called himself James Cox. They’d have seen him from these very windows, coming and going through his back door. They must have passed the time of day with him over that little fence between the two yards, perhaps become friendly enough to learn some of the things about him that his daughter so desperately wanted to find out. She made her goodbye as cordial as she could, then led Beth and Harriet down to her brand-new Mustang.
As to entertaining, that might not be such a bad idea. It would be one way to get people talking. After all this airy chat about how rich she was, though, they’d expect her to regale them on caviar and champagne. How did one manage that sort of thing? The Plummers were more the baked beans and boiled dinners type. She’d have to depend on Harriet Compton for pointers.
Backing the shiny little car out of the driveway, Jenny realized she was putting a lot of faith in a total stranger. She had only this woman’s own word that the affluence Harriet Compton from Baltimore displayed so discreetly and tastefully came from a successful career as a certified public accountant, or even that the woman was who she said she was. She had only Miss Compton’s not very probable story to explain that bloodstained suede jacket now parked beside her spare bed.
She had only her Cirak streak to tell her it was all right to trust Harriet Compton and that she’d better hang onto that feeling because Miss Jennifer Plummer was already in over her head and there was nobody else around here she could depend on to pull her out.
5
“What did Mr. Cox die of?”
They were at the Kum-In Kafé, Meldrum’s closest approximation to a trendy coffee shop, having a belated lunch. Beth and Jenny sat together on one of the plastic-covered banquettes. Harriet Compton sat facing them, barricaded by bags and boxes.
The shopping trip had been a great success. Beth Firbelle had gained status at the boutique by bringing in two well-heeled new customers, even though she’d bought nothing for herself. Among other things, Jenny had found a simple cocktail dress in an intense shade of coral to replace the purple disaster, just in case they got invited out soon, as she had a strong hunch they would. Harriet Compton had spent well over five hundred dollars in fifteen minutes and been urged with almost tearful fervor by Louise herself to come back soon.
After the orgy at Louise’s, Harriet had insisted on making a tour of all the local shops and buying her alleged niece any number of housewarming presents. Jenny had decided she ought to accept them without any fuss. This was the sort of thing a rich aunt would do, and Harriet was obviously having fun doing it.
Jenny hadn’t realized what a superb actress she could be. It must be because she had such wonderful support. Harriet Compton was so convincing she was almost scary. Jenny said so, in a whisper, after Beth had excused herself to visit what she’d demurely referred to as the little girls’ room.
“I ought to be good,” Harriet had replied with a grim chuckle. “I’ve had to do enough of it in my day. Now it looks to me as if we’ve got Beth nicely primed for a spot of pumping, don’t you think? All we have to do is keep her away from Aunt Marguerite awhile longer.”
Hence the prolonged luncheon at the Kum-In Kafé. Beth was thrilled to be treated and only too willing to tell these exciting new acquaintances anything they wanted to know. They worked their way through the neighborhood for a while, then Jenny, trying to get Beth into a really beneficent mood said, “That’s a lovely pin you’re wearing, Beth.”
It was. Beth had put it on her droopy old dress when they’d stopped at the house for Marguerite’s blessing on the jaunt. Evidently it was her one dress-up item.
Beth beamed, but as Jenny bent forward as if to touch it, Beth pulled back. “It’s mine,” she said stiffly.
Poor thing. Beth must be afraid her one lovely object would be taken from her. Jenny quickly changed the subject, moving on to what they were really curious about.
“What do you know about my carriage house?” she asked.
“Yes, who occupied the carriage house before my niece bought it?” Miss Compton asked. “What became of him, or her?”
“It was a him, Mr. Cox. His first name was James. He was the most marvelous neighbor!”
“What about his wife?”
“He was a widower, just about Aunt Marguerite’s age, I think. They—I mean all of us—were great friends. Honestly, listening to him talk was better than a movie. He was the most fascinating man I ever met.”
She probably hadn’t met many, was Jenny’s cynical thought. Of course Beth had been bowled over by the famous Jason Cirak charm. So had Marion Plummer, and she’d been loudly lamenting the fact for years.
According to Beth, Mr. Cox had given them nothing to lament about, however. He’d entertained them at the most delightful little dinners, just herself and Jack and Aunt Marguerite. Gourmet cooking was one of his hobbies, it appeared. Beth had thought it funny to see a man being handy around the kitchen. Jack couldn’t even boil himself an egg.
Miss Compton wasn’t interested in eggs. “If Mr. Cox was fitting so well into the life here in Meldrum, why did he leave?”
For the first time, Beth hesitated and looked unhappy at having to answer. “He didn’t leave. He—well, he died.”
“What did he die of?”
Now Beth was really upset. “I don’t quite know how to tell you.”
“Why not?” Miss Compton insisted. “We’re bound to hear it from somebody.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Still Beth hesitated, fiddling with the edge of the napkin she’d laid neatly back on the table after she’d finished her meal. “As a matter of fact, nobody is quite sure.”
“How remarkable. Do go on.”
“All I can say is that Jack and I found him lying dead one morning at the foot of his own back steps. We’d all three planned to go for an early bird walk. Jack’s terribly interested in birds, you know. Or if you don’t, you s
oon will. Anyway, he’d been trying to get Mr. Cox—that is, Mr. Cox was getting quite interested, too. So we went over about half-past five, I think it was, to call for him, and there he was. Jack was dreadfully upset.” Evidently Beth felt her own feelings weren’t worth commenting on.
“I can imagine,” said Miss Compton. “What did you do?”
“We didn’t know what to do. There was blood all over his face. We thought at first he might have tripped and banged his face and got a nosebleed or something as he was coming out to meet us. So we tried to help him up and started asking him if he was all right and that sort of thing, you know. But he was all stiff and cold, so then we knew. Jack got sick to his stomach and couldn’t bear to look any more, so it turned out I had to stay with Mr. Cox while Jack ran home and called Dr. Olken. And Dr. Olken told him to call the police, so of course he had to. That upset Aunt Marguerite dreadfully.”
“I can imagine,” murmured Miss Compton. “What did the police say?”
“They didn’t know what to make of it any more than we did. They got cross because we’d moved him and kept asking us stupid questions about what position he’d been in when we found him and things like that. We told them he simply looked as if he’d fallen down the steps. I mean, what else could you say?”
“But there are only three little steps, and nothing but dirt underneath,” Jenny protested. “How could a man be killed by such a short fall?”
“That’s what nobody could understand. It did seem odd, but the ground was still frozen hard and, as Jack said, you can’t argue with cold facts. Everybody thought a burglar must have got in and hit him over the head while he was trying to get away or something; but as far as anybody could tell, nothing had been taken. His wallet was in his pocket, and it had over two hundred dollars in it.”
Cirak's Daughter Page 4
